Sleepwalking
by holmesless-assbutt-timelord
Summary: An average boy with abnormal dreams, Dean Winchester feels like something is missing from his life. Perhaps he wishes for the excitement and heroism that his sleeping mind conjures for him... or maybe he aches for the company of the brother that only visits him in his dreams. The summer before he is set to go to college, Dean decides he needs to seek something (or someone) out.


Dean Winchester was your average teenage boy. He thought school was dumb, ignored his homework in favor of pretty girls, and wanted nothing more than to take his dad's car for a joy ride. He thought his leather jacket was the best purchase he ever made, and he smelled like cheap cologne. He was smart, but not in the I-know-ever-capital-of-every-state sort of way. He snuck out too much and had a huge soft spot for good old Captain Morgan. Yes, Dean was all of these things, and he did them averagely.

One thing that was special about Dean Winchester, though, was the spark you sometimes saw in his eye. If you were lucky, and he had been drinking, you'd see it when he looked up at the night sky. Those mossy green irises would glow and burn as his drunken tongue betrayed him, and he would talk about his dreams. In the waking world, he was just a boy, but in his dreams, he'd been and done and seen everything. He'd overcome monsters, ghouls, ghosts, and vampires. He had looked the devil in the face and laughed. He had fought against heaven and hell and won every time. He was a hunter, a protector, and a brother. He was everything he wanted to be.

But when his alarm went off at seven in the morning, screeched at him to hurry up and get his ass to school, Dean was forced to realize he was none of these things. He did not have a brother; he had not faced and conquered evil. He was a senior in high school and a part time mechanic, not a hero.

With his hands stuffed in his pockets, Dean walked home from school. Dad hadn't let him borrow the car this morning, and honestly, he needed time to think. He had been puzzling over his latest unconscious adventure all day. His dream-brother, Sam, had been kidnapped out of a diner, assumedly by a demon, judging by the reek of sulfur. No clues or signs had been left behind to point Dean in the right direction. His boss from the garage, Bobby, made an appearance as he often did. Though, in this world, he was a fellow hunter, not a grease monkey. Together they had tracked down Sammy, but too late. He was stabbed in the back as he was calling out to Dean, his young, fresh face then contorting in pain. Dean woke up screaming Sam's name.

It was a strange dream for many reasons, but not for the ones that you would assume. To Dean's dismay, he had seen his fictional brother dead or hurt a number of times. What he found so unusual about the dream was how young Sam looked. It seemed that the more he dreamed about him, the younger Sam got. It was like Dean's dreams were happening backwards, that it was starting from end to beginning. It was almost worse this way, knowing what would happen to Sam before he did himself. Every night, his brother got a little more innocent, a little happier. It was terrible to know that it would fade.

Dean knew it was illogical to worry over someone that his sleeping mind had come up with itself. He'd never had a brother, or met a boy like Sam. Dean knew that Sam was his own mental invention, someone he had made up to cope or whatever. But still, fear clawed away at him. What if Sam was really dead? Would he stop dreaming about him now? He didn't want to lose touch with the world he had made. There, he was important. There, he meant something. There, he had a family.

Admittedly, Dean did have what most would define as a family. Both of his parents were part of his life, in their own ways. His father, John, wasn't around too much, and his mother, Ellen, lived half way across the country. Their little world had fallen apart when John decided it would be a good idea to cheat on Ellen with his female assistant. Dean was seven. Ellen fought for custody over Dean, but John had the money, and therefore had the power. His lawyers won the case for him, though most everybody outside the court agreed it was unfair. A couple years after, Ellen moved to get out from under John's influence, leaving Dean behind. The older he got, the less frequent the calls and visits became. Now, he saw her once or twice a year if he was lucky. He didn't hold it against her, though. John was a hard man to deal with, and he had the choice, Dean wouldn't live with him either.

It was because of this that Dean wished for family like Sam. No matter how fictional he was, he had always been there. Through all the misadventures and terrible mistakes, Sam stood by his side and helped him through. They'd even gone to hell for each other. It was sad to think that someone that Dean had conjured up in a dream was a better family member to him than his own parents. To be honest, if he could choose between them, he would choose Sam every time.

The fact of the matter was that Dean wasn't very close to his parents. Obviously the distance came between him and Ellen, but it was a differently story entirely with John. They shared a tiny two bedroom house, but it felt like there was always miles between them. John expected too much out of Dean too young, lashed out and got angry at him when he should have been comforting. Being gentle was never John's forte, so Dean grew up to be cold just like his father. There was so much ice and rigidness between them that even if they wanted to be close, they would have no clue where to start chipping away.

Not that it really mattered to Dean, anyway. He spent most of his time at school or at the garage. Bobby was always there to listen if he was having a rough day, or to hear about Dean's dreams. Honestly, Bobby was the only one he could bring himself to talk about them to sober. He never looked at him like he was pathetic, or crazy. He just nodded along and commented on certain parts of the story. He didn't even raise a brow when he started to make appearances in Dean's dreams. His expression didn't change when he heard about his hunter persona.

Though he hadn't been paying much attention, Dean's feet had carried him right to where he needed to be. He had the day off, but the garage was where he felt safest, and he needed to talk to Bobby. The sound of rumbling engines and other machinery bounced off the tin walls, making every noise echo. Dean loved how when all was quiet, every syllable spoken repeated itself half a dozen times.

David, a friend and coworker of Dean's, noticed him walk in and waved him over. He was leaning against the side of a car, taking small, careful sips of his coffee. Every time Dean saw that boy, he was screwing away his time on some mundane task. But he managed to fix his projects, and fix them well, and that was all Bobby cared.

"Winchester, why is it that every damn day I work, you're in here? Are you even on the clock?" David teased.

"No, today's my day off, but I had some things I wanted to talk to Bobby about. Do you know where he is?" Dean asked, matter of fact. Usually, he would have loved to waste time bullshitting with David, but he had too much on his mind. David must have realized this too, because his cocky grin faded in the blink of an eye.

"Uh, yeah. He's back in the office. Something wrong?" The genuine concern in David's voice made Dean cringe. He hated when people looked at him like that, with their eyes all soft and their lips puckered. Pity was not something he enjoyed.

"No, no. It's just some work biz. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over." Dean grinned, a little forcedly, and snatched the Styrofoam coffee cup out of David's hand. He took a huge swig, burning his mouth in the process. "Now get to work!"

Dean picked his way to the back of the garage, careful to avoid oil puddles and greasy rags. He'd just bought these shoes, thank-you-very-much, and he would be damned if he let them get ruined. The door to Bobby's office was ajar, meaning he was up to no important business. Dean still knocked softly before letting himself in.

"How did I know I was going to see you today, boy?" Bobby questioned, not looking up from the paper work on his desk.

"I had a dream about Sam." That was all the more Dean had to say to get Bobby's attention. His eyes snapped up from the invoice he was reading and he nodded.

"Close the door."

Dean obliged before taking a seat on the edge of the desk. Bobby studied him for a moment before asking the obvious question.

"So, what happened?"

"Sam was kidnapped. He was going to get us food from a diner; I was waiting outside. About ten minutes went by, and he still hadn't come back, so I went to see what was taking so long. Everyone in the diner was slumped over dead, it reeked like sulfur, and Sam was nowhere to be found. You and I teamed up, and after I got one of Sam's creepy ass visions, we tracked him down. He was in some old ghost town, and when we got there, he was okay. I thought he was going to be okay. He was walking towards us, calling out my name, when out of nowhere this guy stabs him in the back. I took off running for him, but I woke up before I got there. I was screaming his name."

The silence that filled the room after Dean's story was eerie. He could see the weight of his words sinking into Bobby. His expression changed from one of disbelief, to shock, to worry. But as it always was with Bobby, Dean knew he was not worried about him or his lack of marbles. He was worried about Sam, just as he should be.

"Do you think he's really dead?" Bobby wondered quietly.

"I don't know, but if he is, do you think I'll stop dreaming about him? He can't really be dead, can he? It was just a dream. People don't stay dead in dreams."

"You know my opinion on it, Dean. I don't think these are 'just dreams.' How could they be? What are the chances of you having dreams about the same person, the same world, following the same damn story every night? Everything in these 'dreams' is consistent. I don't know exactly what they are. They could be visions or memories from a past life. But I know they ain't 'just dreams' and that means Sam is in real danger."

Dean swallowed hard, his stomach churning. Bobby was right. There was no way his mind was coming up with this entire alternate life on its own, and that meant that Sam was in big trouble.

"Honestly, I wouldn't be too worked up about it if it wasn't for how it ended," Dean explained. I mean, I've seen Sam die before; he always comes back. And hell, he was young. The youngest I've ever seen him, I think. I know he's at least not dead for good. But I've never had a dream, or whatever, cut out in the middle like that. It's like the signal got scrambled or something."

"No, no matter how you cut it, you're not gonna know until you dream again. We can sit here and ponder all day, but it ain't gonna do us no good. You gotta hold tight till tonight and see what happens.

"I s'pose that really is all I can do. For some reason, I just always hope you have the answers, Bobby."

"Sometimes, so do I, boy," Bobby agreed. "So do I."

Dean went to bed that night hopeful his concerns would be resolved. But for the first time since he started dreaming about Sam, all was quiet. He woke up the next morning only having dreamt of blackness. At first, he thought it was a fluke, but by the third consecutive month with no word from Sam, he was ready to give up. Maybe Sam really was lost to him.


End file.
